I knew right away that there was something unusual about that place.
Not unusual like “there’s Romeo, the cat perched on a branch,” no.
Unusual like “the flowers whisper to each other and the streams keep secrets.”
My human kept repeating,
“It’s the most romantic garden in the world.”
I nodded as if I understood, even though the only romantic thing about me is the way I sleep all crooked on the couch. Then I put my nose to the ground, because romance smells nice, yes, but bird tracks smell even better.
The Garden of Ninfa is a place where the air feels lighter.
There’s this soft light slipping through the trees like a big, well-mannered dog — the kind that never steals your bowl.
And then the little stone bridges, the clear water, the ancient walls reflected in the ponds like elegant ladies checking if their hats are straight.
To keep up appearances, I tried walking with a certain grace.
Head high, tail relaxed, dignified steps.
I lasted ten seconds: the scent of a mysterious bush stole every bit of elegance I had.
My human laughed. He said that no matter how hard I try to act refined — in Ninfa everyone becomes a little wild again, but in a beautiful way.
Every time a petal drifted through the air, it felt like the whole place held its breath.
Not me — I was sniffing.
Sniffing hard, because there was a full collection of smells: fresh water, moss, old stone, flowers I’d never met before, and even the faint, distant trace of a shy duck.
We stopped under a tree that looked like it had stepped out of a dream.
My human sat down, I curled up beside him, and for a moment I thought that we, too, were part of the garden. A tiny part, maybe a bit scruffy, but part of it.
Then I saw a stone.
A very interesting stone.
And the poetry ended right there because, I’m sorry to say, that stone absolutely needed to be sniffed.
The Garden of Ninfa is like that: it makes you believe you’re a graceful, elegant dog… and a second later it reminds you that you’re happy precisely because you never really are.
And that’s perfectly fine.
